Just the Way I'm Not
by Corky the Quirk
Summary: Richard Cameron ventures into senior year. His main goal: survival.
1. Friends

**Author's Note:** Because I love Cameron.

* * *

><p>I don't have friends. At least not anymore.<p>

I don't know what happened, but somewhere between years eight and nine I went from being 'Rich' to 'Cameron', or, when Charlie is feeling exceptionally cruel or annoyed, 'Dick'. And I suddenly became more of an acquaintance than a confidant. I went from being part of the group to just being a part of the group, and trust me, there's a difference.

One moment people are inviting you along, chuckling at the way you excessively worry, slinging their arm loosely around your neck, giving you a noogie, and assuring you that there's safety in numbers. But in the blink of an eye it turns into people allowing you to tag along because you've always been there, sarcastically informing you how obvious it is that you can't get caught sneaking off campus after hours or you'll be punished six ways to Sunday. You go from the kid trying to abide by the rules to keep everyone out of trouble to the boot-licking ginger who's just a nosebleed.

For the record, I'm not a boot-licker; I just have this need to please people.

I've had to please people my entire life, and I guess I just feel into the perfectionist that feels they have to make things right with everyone. The only problem is that you can't please your parents and the faculty while at the same time pleasing your friends. They all want something different, and I'm only one person.

I've been friends with Charlie Dalton my entire life. We had been best friends since diapers, both having wealthy parents with high-standing positions in the community. We'd have sleepovers and play-dates like none other. Charlie was the cool kid, afraid of nothing. The one who would build a fort and knock it down, roaring at the top of his lungs that he was king of the castle. And I was the quiet one that stood loyally at his side, did his bidding, and continually found ways to get us out of the predicaments he more than often got us into.

Our parents were hoping I'd tame Charlie down and he'd get me out of my shell. But not too out of my shell. The perfect son is the one that remained respectable and quiet when necessary, and spoke up when any higher power saw fit. It's more than a little impossible to achieve.

But I try. I've tried since I realized that that's what expected of me. Don't get me wrong. I'm not the only person in the world that feels the pressure to be perfect. Every student that attends Welton or Henley is required to be absolutely perfect, although there are those who have parents willing to hand out large checks if their children don't meet the standards. Charlie being one of them.

He's smart. Beyond smart. He's brilliant. He's sly and cunning and he'll do anything to get what he wants. To get what's important to him. But grades are not important to Charlie. Sure, he studies, and he lets me tutor him when he's worried that he might not get a good grade, but overall, school is not number one on his list. Hell, school isn't even on his list.

And now he's not even at school.

At least not this school.

And neither is Neil.

God, _Neil_.

Senior year is supposed to be the best, but considering I got rid of everyone's favorite teacher, a boy I've known since first grade is dead, my ex-best friend is expelled and never going to talk to me, and the rest of the people I associated with share a great hatred towards me, I have a feeling it's going to be nowhere near the best year.


	2. Rules

I don't set out to intentionally be a nosebleed. I admit, I'm not the most fun person to hang around with, but that doesn't mean I'm a dick. Let's face it, most rules are put in place for good reason. There's a curfew set in the hope that we'll all get enough sleep—yeah right—and the rule against leaving school grounds is an attempt at keeping us safe. I'd love to just stroll around after hours and stare at the stars, or meet a girl on a whim, just like any other guy, but I can at least recognize the purpose of the regulations Welton has in place.

I don't have to be a fan of the rules to be a fan of following the rules.

And somewhere along the way following the rules goes from being cautious to being uncool. That's the predicament I had faced, and the transition from cautious to uncool is less than fun.

But now I'm just that ginger dick that got KIeating fired last year.

The last semester of junior year was torture. It wasn't the sneers I received from everyone, or the way I had been completely excommunicated from the Dead Poets—which, under the guidance that Charlie sends in letters from Balincrest, was still going strong, still underground and without faculty approval—and it wasn't the solitude of having a dorm room all to myself. It was those horrible moments when Todd and I opened our doors at the same time—whether it be morning, noon, or night—and I had to see his tormented face.

He was getting stronger and more confident, that much was true, but the grief was plain to see. Everyone was traumatized by what Neil had done, but, despite knowing him for the least amount of time, it had hit Todd the hardest. And seeing his sunken eyes stare across the hall at me: that was the worst of it.

I start out senior year getting things situated in my room. I'm sharing with George Hopkins, and while he never said much to begin with, he's certainly not in a mood to vocalize anything around me. Although I'm sure there's a few choice words he'd love to shoot my way, considering his subtle fondness of Keating.

Don't get me wrong. I didn't dislike Keating. He was certainly an inspiration. But when it came to choosing who to protect, my friends won. I just wanted everything to be all right in our little world again, even as everything was falling down around us, and Keating was just a constant reminder of the inspiration that—although with some added components, to be sure—led to him leaving us for another plane.

And I didn't want to have a constant reminder around.


	3. Organization

Shoes under the bed, which is perfectly made. Shirts ironed and hung up. Sweaters and vest placed neatly in the middle drawer. Socks and underwear in the top, pants in the bottom. Ties paired with the hung up shirts, dangling off the hangers. Books stacked alphabetically on my desk, complimented by the desk set my parents gave me before they left.

It's the same one my parents gave me last year. I hate it. The only up-side is that I at least know how to organize it properly.


End file.
